


One Billion Credits

by smuttyandabsurd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Electrocution, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Smut, Lobotomy, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Original Character Death(s), Porn, Porn Watching, Porn With Plot, Public Masturbation, Sadism, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyandabsurd/pseuds/smuttyandabsurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the year 3013. A nuclear fallout has turned the surface of the earth barren and inhospitable, and societies are formed in underground metropolises known as Hives. The Hives are powered by individuals of a class known simply as ‘workers’, and their only respite from a life of endless toil are the pleasures the State offers in meagre portions. This include a line of sex dolls introduced every year, available to anyone and everyone on a nightly basis, but for a price.</p><p>Russia/America. Recalibrated!AU. Porn with plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Privation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan Braginski, a worker on the bottom-rung level in a Hive, saves up the credits needed to buy himself a night with Alfred Jones, the current season’s most popular sex doll.

Ivan had allotted himself six months to amass the small fortune of one billion credits. That was six months of hard work, of being the first to clock in and the last to clock out, and a spartan lifestyle devoid of the comfort and luxuries available within the Hive.

He drank only water instead of flavoured drinks; virtually free at only ten credits per glass. He also took to skipping meals in the beginning, before he got clever enough to scavenge leftovers from his colleagues in the canteen; a half-finished bag of chips here, the dregs of a bowl of noodles there, and he was eating for free some days.

He calculated how long he was spending in the shower, using as little hot water as he possibly could, and saving a few credits there too. He had used the same razor blade for over three months, had gone without shampoo since finishing his last bottle a little over two weeks ago, and had been squeezing his last tube of toothpaste to the very end for almost a week now. It was uncomfortable, but he did not care since he was close to reaching the billion credit mark.

And of course, he did not skip breaks when watching the telescreen in his cubicle, which saved him another ten credits per two-minute-long advertisement.

The telescreen was another arm of the State delving into the personal lives of its workers. Installed in every personal cubicle – and on every available wall surfaces in and around their workspaces – telescreens play advertisements, and some State-funded programmes, at every minute of every hour of every day. You could not switch them off. At night in your own cubicle, you could only dim the screens and lower the volume to go to sleep, but during the day you were not even allowed to look away from them. Any attempt to do so, and the screen would bathe your cubicle in red flashing lights, as a disembodied voice commands you to, “ _Please resume viewing…_ ”

He had endured six months’ worth of advertisements to the point where he knew the jingle to every bright, cheap and gaudy graphics lasered into his eyeballs.

There was one advertisement he enjoyed watching, however. Whenever he felt his resolve slipping, feeling cold and sore all over from a hard, sixteen-hour shift, parched for something stronger than water, and stomach gnawing on a disappointing dinner of refrigerated sandwiches, or whatever else was available at a hundred credits or less from the vending machines… When that advertisement came on, he was reminded of why he had resolved to do this, and it was just enough incentive to stop from ordering that thousand-credit takeaway meal from the grease shop.

 _“New from_ Sex Babes _, the hottest babes doing the nastiest things!”_ the voiceover leered as the screen blared hot, throaty moans, and flashed close-ups of flawlessly-waxed, sweat-sheen flesh.

“Alfred,” he would whisper, eyes fixed hungrily to the wheat-blond, blue-eyed figure strutting down the glass catwalk in knee-high stilettos and a skin tight costume that exposed more than it covered. The clip would cut then to a loop of him swinging athletically around a pole, his asking price displayed in stark white against a flashing, multi-coloured backdrop: one billion credits.

He would settle into the covers of his bed, hand reaching to massage his arousal, as he watched with avid greed the screen parading the new sex doll that haunted his waking dreams.

* * *

In the beginning of every season, the State introduces a new line of sex dolls to service the workers of the Hive. The dolls were available in both sexes and in a range of builds, hair colour, and skin tones, to cater to every taste. They were for everyone, as no one person could own them, and they were available on a nightly basis to anyone who could afford the price.

The prices range from only a few hundred credits a night for the old, over-worked models of last season, to anywhere in the tune of millions for so much as a glimpse of the latest line advertised on the telescreens. The prices were entirely dependent on the doll’s popularity score, and this season, Alfred Jones, voted most desirable by more consumers than any other sex dolls in the past, had reached a record asking price of one billion credits a night.

“No-one can afford that!” was the angry, unanimous cry of the workers as the State had him dance tantalisingly beyond their reach.

They were angry. At work, they booed and threw things at the screens whenever Alfred came on, moaning and writhing deliciously on somebody else’s cock. They watched the videos of him loop over and over again – previews to further viewing in their own cubicles, should they choose, at a special price – and they were all crazed with desire and envy.

Everyone had seen the short clips of him sucking off a stranger, and then riding his cock. Everyone dreamt of giving him their own cock one day, ramming it into his mouth and then his ass, the horny, filthy little slut. And for the nights he went unbought – for he was very expensive, few workers could afford him – he was available to view on a free live feed masturbating; stroking and fingering desperately at himself, unable to come _because he was not allowed to_ , and begging for someone to _please please please fuck him_ , as his impossible price of one billion credits flashed on the bottom corner of every telescreen.

In his cubicle at night, Ivan would watch the live feeds, tighten his belt another notch, and grimly tot up his expenses on a spreadsheet, looking to see where else he could squeeze in a few more savings on his credits.

On his last couple of hundred credits towards reaching his goal, he stayed at his work machine hours after his colleagues had left for home. He worked through the night, watching his credit counter crawl up and up, and when he finally reached the billion credit mark, he sank bonelessly to the floor, too tired to cheer.

He gasped for air, his every muscle screaming from the burn as sweat poured from his brows, but he did not care that he could not breathe. He simply shook with silent, happy laughter.

* * *

 _Welcome to_ Sex Babes _, how may we help you?_

Ivan scanned over the buttons on his screen, scrolling past the offers for pornographic films, and selecting with a wave of his hand the option which read: _Buy a night._

_You have selected to buy a night with us. Which model would you like to book?_

Alfred Jones was at the top of the list, of course, along with his price. He beckoned at Alfred’s name, which brought his profile zooming to the foreground as the back melted to the short loop of him dancing on a pole.

_Would you like to book an appointment with Alfred Jones?_

He waved yes.

A loading screen came on, presumably checking to see if he had sufficient credits in his account, and he settled back in bed, trembling with anticipation.

_One billion credits will now be deducted from your account._

Ivan watched as the counter for his credits plummeted. He was left with only a couple of thousand credits by the end of it, but he did not care. He now had Alfred Jones.

_Thank you for buying with us. Your appointment has been booked for this Saturday on July 4th 3013._

It was done. He could hardly believe it! He whooped in silent joy.

_As a special bonus your model will now speak with you._

His soaring heart dropped as quickly as the counter for his credits had done.

What?

The screen went blank for a moment, before flickering to Alfred Jones in a clip he had never seen before, in a room with a large bed and soft, muted lighting which he had also never seen before. He watched, dry-mouthed, as Alfred slowly took off the plastic visor wrapped around his eyes, revealing for the first just how bright and blue they were naked.

“Hello, Ivan Braginski,” Alfred greeted in a soft, husky voice.

Ivan took a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, he could have sworn that Alfred had looked right at him, but that was absurd! This was only a pre-recorded video after all or – or a live feed, the live feed light was flashing… There was no way Alfred could actually _see_ him from the other side of the screen…

Alfred smiled as if he knew what Ivan was thinking, but he chose to say nothing.

“Thank you for buying a night with me,” he said instead. “I look forward to seeing you very soon. Should you wish to cancel our appointment, however, we at _Sex Babes_ would like to inform that you have only twenty-four hours after purchase to do so for a half refund…”

Ivan was shaking his head no, he would never cancel on their appointment, and Alfred stopped. Alfred smiled again. Ivan felt his stomach flip.

Alfred leaned in closer towards the camera – Ivan found himself leaning towards his screen as well – and in a low, conspiratorial tone, he whispered, “Here’s a little something to show just how grateful I am to you for purchasing me.”

He spun around on his heels, and Ivan watched as the camera followed Alfred click-clicking on his stiletto boots to the side of the bed. He drank in Alfred’s profile from the back, eyes roving up from his delectable rear to the muscles of his back, and finally pausing at the barcode tattoo that was just visible on the nape of his neck: the mark of State property. Then he snapped to the object Alfred pulled out of the bedside drawer, and was holding it now at the camera for him to see.

It was a dildo, a really big dildo.                                     

“Well, what do you think?” Alfred asked with a smirk over his shoulder. “It’s one of my favourites. Do you like it, hm? Would you like to see me play with it?”

Ivan could only gape.

“Cat got your tongue?” Alfred giggled.

Then his expression softened. Suddenly coy, he dropped his eyes and whispered, “What would you like me to do?”

Ivan swallowed hard, saying nothing.

Alfred took his silence as his cue to suck off the dildo. The camera focused on his mouth as he worked expertly on the toy, licking and drooling copiously, cheeks hollowed out as he slurped and sucked on its length, his eyes heavily hooded, his breathing rolling out in heavy, shallow breaths…

Ivan let out an involuntary whimper, and Alfred’s eyes flicked up with a wicked gleam. Without warning, he threw back his head – the camera rushing to focus and re-adjust its angle – and Ivan watched, wide-eyed, as Alfred swallowed the toy almost whole, letting out a low, throaty hum.

“Alfred!” Ivan whispered hoarsely, needily, reaching for his growing erection.

Alfred pulled the dildo out of his mouth with a wet, lewd pop, turning to face the camera again. “I want you in me,” he breathed. Eyes never leaving Ivan’s, he felt his way up onto the bed, spreading open his legs – Ivan noticed then that there was a slit in his costume exposing his genitals – and brought the saliva-slicked dildo to himself. “I want you so bad,” Alfred whispered, and he pushed the dildo into himself with a half-sob.

Ivan stared as Alfred crammed in the impressive length of the toy in one hard, squelchy thrust. He bucked and he gasped, eyes widened to an impossible blue. Then he let out a long, pleasured sigh.

“Fuck me _, please_ ,” he pleaded with lips moistened to a rude shade of pink.

Ivan ripped open the flies of his work trousers, brought out his erection, and pumped furiously as Alfred fucked himself with the toy, crying, “ _Mm, yes, yes, just like that! Mmmh… ahh… yes! Ahh… it feels good… ah… it feels so good…_ ”

_He was fucking Alfred. He was pressing him down into the soft, decadent bed, holding his legs spread as he fucked him, thrusting into him hard, fast and desperate, a punishing pace, as Alfred moaned and melted and egged him eagerly on._

_“Just like that! Yes! Ah, please! More, more! Yes! Ah, just like that…!”_

Ivan found himself peaking quickly, much too quickly. He felt a knot tightening at the back of his navel, and he came with a noisy, winded groan, spilling liberally over his sheets as he came hard and rough. Keeled over forwards on his knees, clutching tightly to his soiled sheets in one hand as the other cradled his softening cock, he panted for breath, blinking colour back into his vision as he brought his gaze up to the screen.

“Alfred,” he whispered lovingly.

Alfred had also come, and was streaked up to his face in his own cum. He wiped some of the white, sticky mess with his fingers and, making sure that Ivan was watching, he stuck the digits into his mouth, sucking them clean.

“That felt _really good_ ,” Alfred murmured, his eyes half-lidded in a sated, dreamy look.

But there was something not quite right about him. Ivan could not place just what it was that was wrong with the picture, until Alfred blinked and brought his attention to it.

It was his eyes; there was something very wrong with them. They stared blankly ahead of him, lifeless.

Alfred blinked again, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, he sat up, picked up the plastic visor that had fallen from his person onto the bed, and slipped them back on. When he looked up, he was back to his beautifully distant, seductive self.

“I can’t wait to meet you, Ivan Braginski,” he said, licking his lips. “Until then.”

The screen fizzled out into static. A moment later, the usual run of advertisements came on, leaving Ivan knelt in his own mess to stare at ugly graphics playing to canned laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is an amalgamation of concepts lifted from a lifetime of reading and watching popular dystopian fiction. There are nods to _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ (Orwell), _Brave New World_ (Huxley), and countless many more texts from which I've taken the usual tropes of nuclear fallouts, underground cities, an oppressed class of people and a powerful, all-seeing ruling elite. But deserving of special mention are:
> 
> 1) _[Fifteen Million Merits](http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=/watch%3Fv%3D7vsYnaqpIpE)_ from Channel 4's _Black Mirror_ series, itself an Orwell-inspired story, from which the concept of pornography-on-demand and X Factor-style TV voting was specially lifted from along with the line: “ _New from_ Sex Babes, _the hottest babes doing the nastiest things!_ ”
> 
> 2) Yoshihara Rieko's cult classic yaoi series _Ai no Kusabi_ , for the concept of lobotomised humans sold and abused as sex dolls in a debauched dystopian future.
> 
> 3) Shieunni's [recalibrated!AU Hetalia doodles on Tumblr](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/tagged/recalibrated-au), from which the fic's taken its AU name and whose visuals I draw heavily upon, especially for Alfred's costumes.
> 
> Although none of the fic's special concepts are original to me, I must stress that _**every word of it is written myself, and neither consciously nor directly lifted from any text except where noted.**_
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoyed it so far :D


	2. Compliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred wakes up in a laboratory and learns of his fate, and Ivan travels into the Hive to the Pleasure Facility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to warn you this is not a pleasant chapter to read. There's some background, a bit of world-building, and no sexytiems this time. Sexytiems will all be in the next part if this one doesn't turn you off the rest of the story (the next part will make up for this one I swear! @_@)
> 
>   
> **Please read the warnings for this part and take them seriously:**  
>  Bondage, drug use, electrocution, lobotomy, noncon, OC death, sadism, violence.
> 
>   
> If there's anything listed that's triggering for you, please don't read this chapter. _If in doubt, please don't read this chapter_. I actually shocked and disgusted myself writing this part, but that's how the story has chosen to unfold for me.

_We are going to make an example of you._

That was when Alfred knew everything had gone horribly wrong. The screen brought up his records – name, age, home address, photographs, and university registration; everything that made up his existence in the eyes of the State – and deleted them from the Database.

He was no longer a Citizen.

Before he could protest, somebody grabbed him from behind and slammed him forward onto the table, fighting to restrict his arms behind his back. He screamed to be released, to be given a second chance – _this was a mistake!_

_The State does not make mistakes._

“Let me go!” he cried.

He elbowed his assailant hard in the gut and almost shook himself free, but a bigger, burlier man stepped up in his place and threw him back down. The edge of the table slammed painfully into his midriff, winding him, his breathing growing erratic as panic crippled him.

“Lift your eyes for the laser now,” one of them – a woman? – said coolly, sounding almost bored.

They had to force him to do it. Somebody yanked him back by his hair and forced his eyelids open with gloved fingers. He stared into the laser, tears welling up and tracking down his cheeks as the beam scrambled the pattern of his irises, destroying his biometric identification.

_Subject is in prime physical condition._

_Penalty for crimes committed: Recalibration to the Pleasure Facility._

* * *

_Six months later…_

* * *

Alfred woke up with a sharp, choked scream.

He had a nightmare, it _had_ to be a nightmare…

He blinked, wincing up at the harsh, bright light glaring down on him from the ceiling. The entire room was bathed in white; white floors, white walls, white countertops, a cold, clinical room with a stale, air-conditioned non-scent. The whiteness proved to be disorientating as he looked slowly around him.

Just where was he?

He tried to sit up, but found he was strapped to the table he was lying on, and thumped back down. He ached all over. He was very thirsty.

Then everything came flooding back: _the Justice courts, the sentencing, the screams and the terror, and… and…_

“Let me out! _Let me out!_ ” he yelled, his fear rising and bubbling over. He tugged at his restraints. They have put him in a straitjacket, he found, and that tipped him into greater panic. He took to rocking violently from side to side, roaring, _“LET ME OUT!”_

Where was he? Where have they taken him?

A door slid smoothly open from a corner of the room. He stopped shouting then and dropped deathly still, gazing fearfully at the figure advancing on him. It was a man dressed in a lab coat, with an amused, unfriendly smile fixed to his face.

“Wh-who are you?” he demanded in a small, timorous voice.

“Someone who is going to make it all better now,” the man said as he stepped up to the table.

He had blond, messy hair and a pair of sharp green eyes that did not seem to register Alfred at all. He reached over to the side of Alfred and picked up something from a metal tray – a syringe. Alfred shook his head.

“No,” he begged. “No, stop! _Stop!_ ”

The man held Alfred down and twisted his head to the side, exposing his jugular. Alfred shuddered in the confines of his bonds, his eyes screwed tightly shut, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped and swallowed.

“No wonder you’ve woken up on the wrong side of bed,” the man said with a little tut, his hand touching something plastered to the side of Alfred’s neck. He picked under it with a fingernail and tore it loose, holding it up for Alfred to see.

It was a square, transparent patch with one word stamped across it in big, bold letters: COMPLIANCE.

“You were all out of Compliance,” the man cooed, waving the patch as he stroked Alfred’s hair in what was meant to be a soothing manner. “Not to worry, dear, I’ll sort a new one out for you after we’ve fixed you up a bit.”

“Just wh-who are you? And where am I? Wh-what’s happening?”

The man heaved a great, heavy sigh.

“You ask the same bloody questions every time you come back… now if they had only allowed me to carry out the procedure…”

“C-come back?”

The man smirked. Alfred did not like the look in his eyes.

Crossing his arms across his chest under a pair of stethoscopes slung around his neck, the man said in a weary, monotonous tone that suggested he was repeating himself yet again, “I am Dr Arthur Kirkland. I am in charge of your… welfare, shall we say? It’s my job to keep you under, and to make sure you’re always in tip-top condition… free from diseases, that sort of thing… every bit of you clean and in order…”

His eyes flicked down the length of Alfred’s body, wrapped as it was in a straitjacket, with a lingering, suggestive leer.

“Now as to where you are…”

Dr Kirkland leaned curiously over Alfred, bringing their faces close to within inches apart. Alfred stared up into the pitiless depths of his cold green eyes, his own prickling with tears.

“…have you really not a clue?” the doctor whispered.

Alfred knew, or thought he knew, but he did not want to believe it. He looked beseechingly up at Dr Kirkland, begging for an answer that was not… not _that_ … anything but _that_ …

But Dr Kirkland only straightened up, re-crossing his arms. “You’re in the Pleasure Facility,” he said briskly. “You’re been recalibrated. You’ll find the memory of it somewhere in your mind, I’m sure, I haven’t touched anything beyond your last birthday…”

“B-birthday?” Alfred repeated stupidly. He felt numb all over as the words sank into him.

“Yes, boy, your bir– why, but it’s today!” Dr Kirkland said with exaggerated delight, glancing down at a silver timepiece strapped to his wrist. “Fourth of July, was it? Well, congratulations, but I’m afraid it’s still work as usual for you. No rest for the wicked!”

He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, took up the syringe again, uncapped the plastic top from the needle, and held it up to the light as he squirted out a little of whatever was in it, to make sure there was no air bubbles trapped inside.

Alfred started to struggle again at the sight of it.

“Be still, boy, it’s only a sedative,” the doctor said impatiently.

“Please let me go!” Alfred sobbed. “I’m begging you, please! I want to go home, I want t–”

The doctor made soft, shushing noises as he held Alfred down once more. Alfred tensed up. His breathing came out sharp and shallow, and his eyes poured with tears, blurring his vision until everything was blotted out. The doctor brought the needle down.

“It’s all right now,” he murmured as he forced the needle into Alfred’s jugular. Alfred let out a low, whimpering cry.

The sedative was very potent and worked quickly. As blackness began to creep in from all four corners of the room, Alfred felt his mouth go slack, the strain in his body lifting as his muscles loosened and relaxed. His fight to stay conscious quickly turned into a losing battle as his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

“There, isn’t that better?” Dr Kirkland’s voice sounded as if it was floating from over a great distance, but Alfred could still detect the laugh in it as he sneered, “Feels _good_ , doesn’t it? Oh, and one more thing before you go back to sleep…”

 _“You_ are _home.”_

* * *

The Hive is a metropolis home to over eight million people. The Citizens of the Hive are those who are registered in the Database, which excludes sex dolls (euphemistically labelled sub-Citizens, listed in a separate registry similar to pets and property) and illegal immigrants from neighbouring Hives. Anyone not in the Database is excluded from access to housing, education, health care, legal services, and state protection – even a basic right to life.

Among the Citizens, there is a strict three-ranking class system that is vigorously policed. At the top are the Elites, a select group of only ten people who have inherited their positions from the founders of the Hive many hundreds of years ago. They govern all the inner workings of the Hive, and live separate from everyone else in the very heart of the city, in opulence that was rumoured to be beyond the conceivable.

The class below them are the State Citizens who make up a little over a quarter of the total Citizen population. They are the middle class, the ones who run the general affairs of the State in businesses, schools and hospitals, with the legal right to marry, have a family, and buy property, including, if they so wish, their very own sex dolls.

Making up the majority of the population at the bottom are a nameless class of workers who live all their lives in the outskirts of the Hive in Designated Areas. All workers are given only the most basic education and health care, and are strictly forbidden from owning property. They eat, sleep, and play in State-provided cubicles, and work every day of their lives at machines that generate food and power for the whole Hive.

For a worker, access into the Hive proper is very restricted. A majority of workers will never put so much as a toe out of their Designated Areas in their lifetime, but permission to travel can be granted to exceptionally hard-working Citizens. Outings to the Zoo, Park, the Shopping Centre and, of course, the Pleasure Facility, can be bought with credits earned from clocking in to work.

Which was how Ivan came to be where he was that day. He had just stepped out of the Tube station into the heart of the Hive itself, and for a moment he simply stood gaping around him. This was the first time he had ever gone beyond the borders of his Designated Area, and looking around, he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

For one, there was just so much _space_. When he tilted his head up there was no ceiling, only floors and floors as far as his eyes could see, making him dizzy. Around him were milling with people of all backgrounds, many in unbelievably lavish clothing; wool, cashmere, leather, fabrics he did not even know the name of, and all in a dazzling array of colours and cuts. There were long coats and dresses, smart suits and cute skirts; hats, shades, gloves, shoes and jewellery, more accessories than he ever knew existed to adorn a person, and his mind reeled from the extravagance.

Beside them, he thought he must stand out in his simple worker’s attire of a cotton shirt and overalls. He felt very self-conscious as he wandered through the city, following the route he had been directed to earlier at the station.

As he walked, he was struck by a sudden observation: not everyone here was equal. This might seem a strange thing to notice for somebody who knew that his place was firmly in the lower class, but he had only ever seen his equals among his colleagues in his Designated Area. He had never seen the classes clash like this. Once he noticed this, he was unable to put it to the back of his mind, and everywhere he looked, he was making a conscious distinction between a worker, a State Citizen, and a sex doll.

The more beautifully dressed, heavily made-up, lavishly decorated people he had taken for rich State Citizens were actually sex dolls. He saw now that they sported barcode tattoos on the nape of their necks and both upper arms, and often trailed a step or two behind who must be their owners. Some were got up in blatantly sexy costumes that flattered their curves and exposed flesh. Some even wore a collar, with a leash tugged along by their owners. As he walked amongst them, gawping at all the excess, Ivan came to realise that in comparison, the sex dolls advertised to him and his colleagues back home were actually quite conservatively dressed.

There was so much to take in, he could spend all night just looking; the giant billboards advertising luxury goods, the night clubs heaving with patrons and blaring music, the shop windows as high as four floors, decked with mannequins modelling the latest fashion, or displaying small, shiny gadgets he did not know the functions of…

He was staring so much around him – head twisting from side to side, trying to see everything – that he did not see the Thought Police standing by the lamppost until he was almost on him.

“Excuse me!” the Thought Police said, bristling with indignation.

Ivan jumped almost out of his skin. “Sorry, I’m so sorry!” he babbled.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Ivan stood meekly by as the Thought Police brushed down his uniform and straightened himself.

The Thought Police had a pair of dark, disconcertingly red pupils that were in sharp contrast to his pale complexion. In his jack boots, hat with the insignia of the State pulled over white-blond hair, and the handle of an electric baton peeking out from underneath his coat, he cut for an intimidating, authoritative figure, even though he was a fair few centimetres shorter than Ivan.

As his unusual eyes travelled up and down the length of Ivan in his worker’s uniform, they narrowed sharply together in suspicion.

“Not from around here, are you? You got a permit?”

He raised a leather-gloved hand and made an impatient beckoning motion with it, and Ivan rushed to give him his hand to show the travel permit stamped to his wrist.

Just then, a girl let out a piercing scream from the middle of a crowd. The crowd parted in a circle around the scene but continued to move along, unwilling to get involved. Ivan stared in bewilderment. A man was holding a girl tightly by her upper arm in one hand as he beat her savagely with the other, yelling, “I’ll teach you to steal from me, you fucking whore!”

The Thought Police looked up with a frown. “What the…”

He dropped Ivan’s hand and ran over to the scene, the crowd parting easily to give him way. Ivan pulled down his shirt sleeve as he stared. He was not sure whether or not he was free to leave, so he decided to stay and watch, a morbid curiosity overriding his initial apprehension.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he heard the Thought Police demand. If the crowd before had been sidestepping the scene, they now gave it a wide berth.

To Ivan’s astonishment, the man looked pleased to see the Thought Police, whereas the girl took to trembling all over, her eyes bloodshot with terror. She could not have been older than sixteen.

“Officer, this _piece of trash_ tried to steal from me,” the man said. He threw the girl violently to the ground, and she fell limp as a marionette with her strings cut, weeping. A dozen or so plastic credit cards clattered out of her pockets on to the pavement, glimmering in the city lights.

The Thought Police stared down at the girl weeping over her stolen credits. After a while, he waved for the man to leave them. The man did so reluctantly, but not before hacking his throat and spitting at the girl, stalking away with his nose in the air.

Ivan noticed then that the girl had barcode tattoos on her arms. She was a sex doll, but what a pitiful sight she made. Her frock, once magnificent, undoubtedly, was torn and caked with grime. Ivan had assumed she was a short-haired model, but upon closer inspection he saw that the ends were unevenly cut; somebody had hacked off her hair, and none-too-gently by the looks of it. As she sat in the dirt on the ground, weeping piteously and rubbing her swollen eyes with the balls of her palm, Ivan felt his heart go out to her.

“Someone discarded you, eh?” he heard the Thought Police say to her.

He had unsheathed his baton, and was prodding the tip of it at one of her barcode tattoos; she flinched from it, hiccoughing. He withdrew his weapon.

“Don’t worry,” Ivan heard him say in a strangely flat voice. “I’ll put you out of your misery.”

The baton slammed across the side of her head, and she fell without another sound and stopped moving, stopped weeping altogether. Seeing her lying so still and silent made for a more upsetting picture than when she had been crying, but the Thought Police was not finished with her. As Ivan watched with mounting horror, he plunged the baton into her frock down between her breasts and let loose the full voltage of his weapon through her.

Her body shuddered as the current ran through her. She was a puppet dancing to an ugly tune, jerking up and down, head lolling from side to side, as the Thought Police delivered enough ampage to kill a full grown man. Ivan felt sick watching her. But he was the sole witness to the scene, as everyone else walked past the girl as if her murder was of no consequence to their lives.

And why should it? She was only a sex doll, a lobotomised sub-Citizen with no rights, and an abandoned, thieving one at that…

It seemed to take the Thought Police a long time to finish his grim errand. When he was satisfied that the girl was dead, he pulled the baton from her smoking, twitching body and sheathed it again.

“Another one?”

A second Thought Police, taller and bigger built with gelled blond hair and dark blue eyes, came jogging up to his red-eyed colleague. He held two steaming Styrofoam cups in his hands.

“These goddamned sex dolls,” Red-Eyes grumbled. He accepted a cup with a curt nod of thanks, adding with a jerk of his thumb, “Get her cleaned up.”

His colleague tuned in a radio to order a clean-up, and Red-Eyes turned away from the girl as if he could no longer bear to look at her. That was when he noticed that Ivan was still standing there by the lamppost.

Raising his coffee in a small toast, he said in a booming voice that travelled over the babble of the crowd, “Welcome to the Hive!”

Ivan wished he had left earlier after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did debate whether or not to use Hetalia characters for the 'villain' roles, and settled to do so in the end because otherwise the chapter would be nothing but OCs. But not to worry, they only appear fleetingly for this part. The focus is still squarely on Ivan and Alfred's relationship!
> 
> In this part I've lifted extensively from Shieunni's [recalibrated!AU doodles](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/tagged/recalibrated-au) ([this one](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/post/52046567413/boopboop-its-almost-6am-and-my-hand-is-not) especially) and [creepy lobotomising nurse!England doodles](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/tagged/nurse%21england) ([this one](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/post/40671428550/ive-found-just-the-way-to-keep-you-with-me-here) _most_ especially).
> 
> The concept for a Compliance drug was taken from _Fifteen Million Merits_ (see end notes in previous chapter), and the idea for the drug in patch form was taken from a _Doctor Who_ episode I saw a long time ago (sorry I don't remember the season or episode it was from, but I think it was during Tenth's era).


	3. Insatiable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan is conflicted, but he comes and takes what he has paid for as Alfred seduces him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is a little short as it’s purely smut, hohoho! It’s based entirely off the third page of [this post](http://shieunni.tumblr.com/post/52050320048/bluhhhhh-its-7-30am-what-am-i-doinggggggg) from Shieunni’s recalibrated!AU doodles. And yeah. This is the ‘climax’ of the story. I hope it lives up to expectations ^^;

How he got to the Pleasure Facility, Ivan will never know; he had walked the rest of the way there in a daze and saw no more of the sights. When he got to the entrance of _Sex Babestation_ , he stood staring at it for a moment.

The front side of the building was an enormous billboard playing the same pulsating images of the season’s line-up broadcasted on every telescreen back home. Alfred Jones featured very prominently here as well; the catwalk and price tag loop, the pole dancing loop, the close-up of his face during his debut riding hard on a stranger; his blue eyes hooded, his mouth stained with cum, falling slack as he silently moaned…

_Ah, we’ve been expecting you, sir._

It was the first time Ivan had ever been addressed ‘sir’, and he did not know what to make of it. His booking was checked, his travel permit renewed for the return journey (another sting of the laser stamp to his wrist), then he was herded into a lift and up to a room, the very same room Alfred had addressed him from in his private show for him.

 _Alfred will be arriving shortly_ , the attendant politely assured him. Ivan smiled feebly as the attendant gave a small bow, backed out of the room, and shut the doors.

The room was even more sumptuous to behold in person, but Ivan hardly saw it. Locating the bathroom door, he half-strode half-ran to it, waved over the sensor to undo the latch, and lunged over to the wash basin. He was convinced he was going to be sick and retched a little, but nothing came up. It was just as well. But he did look awful, his face lined and grey as if he had aged considerably since stepping out of the Tube station.

Slowly, he turned on the tap, scooped the water with his hands, and splashed it over his face, sighing as he washed the dirt of the city from himself. The water felt cool against his heated skin. When he was finished, and was drying his face on a hand towel hung to his side, he sensed that he was not alone and wheeled sharply around.

“Hello, Ivan Braginski,” Alfred greeted him from the doorway, the same way he had over the live feed, except this time he was saying it in person and his voice sounded even sweeter.

 _Alfred_ , he wanted to say, but could not. All that came out was a small squeak.

Unperturbed, Alfred took his weight off the door frame and stepped into the bathroom with a click of his heels. Within moments he was up against Ivan, pressing his body to his, running smooth gloved hands up the side of Ivan’s face, still damp from the wash. Their lips hovering a breath’s width apart, it was a small step for Alfred to swallow the distance between them and connect to Ivan in a heated, open-mouthed kiss; Ivan’s first kiss.

Ivan froze. Alfred was… practiced. Yes, that was it. He was skilled, his lips soft and pliant even as he demanded, and in his surprise and inexperience, Ivan simply stood agape. When Alfred finally pulled from him with a deliberate smacking sound – a string of saliva connecting them still, blue eyes hooded behind plastic lightly-tinted shades – Ivan simply stared.

He had Alfred right here in the flesh and in his arms. His hands skirted up Alfred’s hip bones to his naked waist, one hand smoothing up his back to the laces of his leather corset as the other reached down to give his rear a squeeze. Alfred gave a delicious little gasp at that. Ivan pressed them tighter together, his passion rising and spilling over as he finally verbalised, “Alfred…”

The telescreen never told how soft and smooth his skin was to the touch, how toned his muscles were flexing underneath. It never told of the scent or taste of him, velvety and intoxicatingly sweet – nor the precise timbre of his voice as he encouraged Ivan’s roaming advances with moans and purrs and soft, feathery sighs. He was kissing Alfred wherever his lips met him – mouth, chin, cheeks, eyelids; a shower of loving tributes upon his face – and his hands touched him all over in places he could not reach to kiss.

Alfred let out a sudden gasp. Ivan took the opportunity to press to him an open-mouthed kiss of his own, devouring Alfred with hungry, sloppy, inexperienced lips. Alfred shuddered and gasped some more, both hands clutching at Ivan’s, the one slid down his hot pants and massaging his arousal. The garment slipped down to his thighs as Ivan kneaded him to full hardness, thumbing his beading precum to spread and lubricate him, casually tugging him off. But this was not what Alfred wanted.

“No, _fuck me!_ ” Alfred hissed. The composed seducer from moments before had quietly melted to the harried, desperate being that now stood before Ivan, eyes wild with a new urgency. He grabbed Ivan’s hand from himself and pulled, dragged him stumbling out of the bathroom and towards the bed, Ivan following as quickly as he could.

Alfred shimmied out of his pants, a mere ornament with little practical function, with a practiced if trembling flaunt. He was painfully erect, his member flushed, but he paid his arousal little mind and simply reached round to prepare himself. Ivan cottoned on quickly, and turned Alfred around and bent him over the bed, adding his own fingers to Alfred’s entrance.

“Oh!” Alfred gasped.

Ivan was a little taken aback at how hot and tight Alfred felt around his fingers, how wet… how _prepared_ he was all slick with lubrication down there. The thought of fucking him, of replacing his fingers with his cock and fucking him, sent shivers of anticipation thrilling up his spine. As he spread and scissored his fingers inside of him, he felt Alfred grow taut with tension, his throat reverberating with a high, keening sound as he hummed, “ _Mmmhh…!_ ”

Alfred pushed hard into Ivan’s fingers, his ass puckering, squelching around his long, exploring digits, drawing them in and deep. At Alfred’s breathy request, Ivan added a third finger and rotated them in him, stretching and feeling around the soft, heated walls of his flesh. He felt Alfred stiffen as he brushed against something in him, and pressed into him again, hard; Alfred let out a little _oh_ of surprise. Pleased at the sound it elicited, Ivan twisted his fingers and hammered repeatedly against that pleasure spot, pushing Alfred to writhe and mewl beneath him in helpless pleasure.

“Enough, _please!_ ” Alfred cried suddenly, loud enough to tear his lungs out.

He let out a weak sob as Ivan immediately stopped and pulled out his fingers. Ivan was worried that he might have hurt Alfred and began to apologise, but Alfred was twisting round, and reaching to pull Ivan down and over him, bringing their faces close together.

“P-put it in,” Alfred whispered on a great shuddering breath. Ivan froze, feeling all the blood in him drain to his groin. Alfred stared up at Ivan, his eyes searching, frantic, close to tears. “Ivan, p-please,” he whimpered. “Please p-put it in, Ivan, put it in inside m-m–”

Ivan cut him off with a swift hard kiss, swallowing his plea. Then he pulled back, fumbled with the fastening of his trousers, and brought out his own erection, stroking it, slicking it with the lubricant from Alfred’s ass. Alfred flopped back down, his breathing quickening with anticipation.

Carefully positioning himself, Ivan pushed with little resistance into Alfred in one squelching stroke. He paused, letting out a choke from the sensation around his cock; wet, heated, and impossibly, impossibly tight, he could cum right then and there, he thought. He pushed himself all the way in, his eyes crossing as he groaned, unable to believe that anything could feel _so good…_

Alfred cried out in pleasure – in _relief_ – lips stretched to a tight, wobbly grin. “ _Yes!_ ” he hissed, scrabbling at the sheets with his gloved fingers. He ground his hips against Ivan; oh but he was _big_ , he felt so _full_ , so _tight_ in him, and wept, “ _Yes_ , oh god _yes!_ ”

Ivan began to move inside of him, slowly at first, just rocking his hips and thrusting his length inside of Alfred. He held himself up by his hands planted by the sides of Alfred, and he was bent low, low enough over Alfred to smell his shampoo, the sweet clean scent mixing with his beading sweat.

As Alfred bucked and gasped beneath him, panting hotly, Ivan gradually picked up pace and fell into a hard-thrusting rhythm, adding audibly lewd squelches and slaps of flesh on flesh to Alfred’s wanton, lust-filled moans.

“ _Ahh!_ ” Alfred trilled, rubbing his own aching arousal along the sheets beneath him, seeking purchase.   _“Ah, mmh… Yes, just like that! Yes, ah – ah – yes! Oh god, just like that!”_

Relief flooded through every nerve and fibre of his being, soaking his mind in a soup of hazy pleasure, and it was a welcomed change from the heat of the all-consuming fire of his base smutty needs, the one he woke up to every evening, hot and flushed and _begging_ for release. It could only be quenched by a client, they told him, they _made_ him that way – and he was entirely without shame as he moaned and writhed, egging Ivan on with every roll of his hips and sighing demands for more.

 _Don’t stop,_ he pleaded internally as Ivan pounded into him rough and hard, sending shoots of pleasure singing up and down the length of his body, to the very tips of his fingers and toes. _Yes, just like that, it feels so good… oh, don’t stop!_

It was as he floated in the throes of gratification just like this that he was caught unawares. Ivan, breathing rough and ragged, brought his lips to the flushed shell of Alfred’s ear, and whispered, “I’m going to save you.”

Alfred blinked. There was a weight of sincerity behind Ivan’s words, and it snapped him momentarily out of his selfish, debauched stupor. His heart began to race, thudding an incessant rhythm in his eardrums, and he stared blankly at the sheets before him, feeling Ivan’s words reaching for something deep within him…

Ivan let out another juddering breath – his client was nearing his climax, Alfred could tell – and in a low roll of breath Ivan hoarsely whispered, “I’m going to save you, Alfred. I swear it.”


End file.
